


Forethought

by Siria



Category: Scanners II, Thoughtcrimes
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-09
Updated: 2007-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:41:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendan soon finds that there's a difference between Freya and David.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forethought

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Cate for betaing.

Brendan soon finds that there's a difference between Freya and David.

With Freya, he works faster and better than ever before, in a partnership made closer by true friendship, by communication that's faster than sound and better than sight, by her unerring ability to tease patterns and music from his mind. He's as close to her than he's ever been to anyone, closer than to mother or brother or former wife; she's closer to him than anyone; it's special, unique, a marvel and marvellous, and Brendan knows he loves her.

With Freya, Brendan sometimes finds himself wishing that he could hide.

David's different—a telepath, just like Freya, but probably more powerful than she will ever be. The NSA brought him in to train with her, hoping that he can help her channel her abilities, harness them; and Brendan does see the difference in her after their daily sessions, when they leave the training room, smiling at one another like they're talking in a way that surpasses words. She's calmer, more insightful; but from what they say, from what Brendan sees, David's always going to be the stronger of two. He's had years more practice at controlling his abilities, of course, but it's more than that; he has a precision and a clarity of vision that Freya will never have, no need to expend energy on blocking like she does.

It's more than that. He looks at Brendan across the office with eyes that are sharp, neither blue nor grey, and Brendan knows that there is nothing that he can hide from David, nothing that he can keep safe; knows that if David wanted to, he could reach inside him, strip him down so that there's nothing left but _him_, just Brendan, just limbs and thoughts and shuddering pulse; knows with a frightening certainty that there's nothing he'd like more than to let David _see_.

And David does, he does; he hears Brendan's words and the invitation to dinner, brings Brendan back to the apartment he's rented while he's staying in New York, kisses him and kisses him before spreading him out across dark blue sheets. He takes off Brendan's clothing, removing the wrinkled shirt and crumpled tie with fingers that are deft and sure, cool against Brendan's over-heated skin.

Brendan looks up at him with wide eyes, throat working against the desire to beg, to plead; because David is moving down his body, pressing kisses to the slope of his collarbone and the length of his side, to the flare of his hipbone—David is pressing his face against the crease of thigh, scraping warm skin lightly with his teeth—David is stroking his side, his stomach, the long line of his thigh, with careful hands and—David is, is—Brendan swallows hard because _oh_, he forgot, he forgot that David would know exactly where to touch him before he even knows it himself. Sweat prickles the length of his spine, across his shoulders.

David moves away to strip off his clothes—suit and shirt and socks sent flying—and Brendan whimpers softly, the loss of all that skin-warmth abrupt and painful; whimpers loudly when David comes back, kissing him with all the focus that Brendan's only seen before, has never felt first-hand. He arches a little, wanting more pressure, wanting more of David's mouth against his throat, the stubble at his jawline; wanting for David to press and push and take; and David knows, knows all of it, knows just how Brendan is wanting.

He skims the tips of his fingers up Brendan's thighs lightly, so lightly that Brendan can't stand it, can't take it, he's trembling, and he wants it yes, like that, more—he doesn't realise he's talking out loud until he opens his eyes and sees how David's smiling at him, the particular slant of his mouth. Brendan's hands clench and unclench against the fine cotton of the bed sheets.

"Please," Brendan says, voice a rasp of need, "_please_," letting his legs fall apart while David bends over him, warm breath and a flutter of fingertips against his erection, barely there, the faintest of touches, like the promise of something better—the promise of a hot mouth on him, strong fingers inside him, hard cock pushing into him.

But David looks up at him, tilts his head to one side; his touch on Brendan stays slow and steady, and Brendan doesn't know how he can stand it; how the flush on David's skin, the silvery tinge to his eyes, can be the only sign of what he's doing to Brendan, how his breath isn't coming any quicker even though he's taking Brendan apart.

Brendan reaches up with one trembling hand, wanting to touch, wanting to give back that sensation to David, recreate the stutter-flare of feeling that's coalescing and expanding in Brendan's body with every breath he takes. David lets him touch his cheek, his shoulder, lets him stroke his thumb over the slant of his lower lip, but all he says is "Tell me what you want, Brendan."

"I, please..." Brendan's body twists when David moves to straddle him; there's a curious kind of long-limbed grace to David's body, an economy of movement and a strength that Brendan can't help but arch into.

"Tell me," David murmurs, leaning down to kiss him, to bite at the curve of Brendan's lower lip; they're pressed cock to belly and belly to cock, hard and hot, and Brendan's breath catches on a moan.

"You know," he says, "you know, you know..."

"Tell me anyway," David says, reaching over to rummage in the bedside table, pulling out a condom and a half-empty bottle of lube, stroking one hand over Brendan's side even as he leans away. "Tell me."

"I want," Brendan says and swallows. "I want your fingers in me"—and they're already there, big blunt fingers pressing into him, stretching him open—"and your mouth on, on me"—and David's mouth is on him, around him, warm and wet and gentle, knowing suction—"touch me, and"—hands, everywhere, David's legs tangled with his—"a, another finger, please"—and more—"and oh god, god, David, fuck me, come _on_, hard, harder"—and Brendan arches up just as David eases into him.

It's slow at first, then fierce and deep, Brendan rocking back into every thrust. One of David's hands rests on his hip, holding him down and urging him on; with the other, he reaches up to curve a palm against Brendan's flushed cheek. "I see you," David whispers, "I do, Brendan, I've always seen you, and next time I'll—"

"Jesus, _yes_," Brendan hisses, and his back is a bowstring as he comes.


End file.
